Her Secondhand Groom(58)

He swallowed convulsively as his brain attempted to scramble half a thought together. It was all he could do to remember to pluck her towel off the floor before scooping her up.

The walk to his room had never seemed so long. Never could he remember a time when he was so drawn to a woman, so intoxicated by her. Never.

With more grace than he knew he possessed, Patrick placed her on the bed, removed her spectacles, and then shut his door. Striving to control his lust, Patrick walked slowly back to the bed, his eyes feasting on the sight in front of him―countering his best efforts of lust control. He wanted her. There was no denying it now, he craved her like a man stranded in the desert craved a cool glass of water.

A knot of unease and panic formed in his chest. If memory served as an honest reminder, and usually it did, this might be the only time he’d get to enjoy Juliet this way. Best to take it slow, allow her time for any sort of enjoyment she might be able to experience before satisfying himself.

He looked down to where she lay atop his bed with only a small scrap of a towel covering her. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, grabbing hold of the corner of her towel. Taking his time, he slid it down her body as slowly as he could, devouring every inch of her body with his eyes as he went. Letting the towel drop to the floor, Patrick took a step back and let his eyes do another thorough sweep of her naked body.

Her lower lip quivered and her hands clutched the counterpane, twisting. “Are you removing your clothes now?” she asked, biting her lip.

He blinked at her. Couldn’t she see he wasn’t removing his clothes? “No.”

“Oh.” She blinked, her face flushing. “I just thought...”

“You thought?”

“Now that I was naked, you’d, you know.”

Yes, he did know. But he wanted to take his time, go slow. What was her rush? “Are you sure you wish to do this?” He had to ask. He needed to know.

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “I’m sure. It’s just that...that...”

“What? What is it?”

Juliet’s body shifted, her hands releasing the counterpane and coming up to cover her breasts and feminine curls in a way that hid next to nothing and only stirred his interest more. “I know I said before that I wasn’t overly modest, but I might have been slightly untruthful.” She lowered her lashes, the pale skin of her chest and neck flushing dark red. “Without my spectacles I cannot see you, but given the circumstances of what we’re about to do, I’d feel better at least knowing you were in the same state.”

Patrick’s heart twisted. Too caught up in his own need, he’d completely forgotten about her eyesight, or lack thereof. While he was a visual person by nature, she wasn’t. She’d need to touch and feel in order to “see” him. “I’m sorry, Juliet,” he rasped, his fingers working the buttons of his coat and waistcoat as fast as they could move. He pulled his shirt off and walked up to her. “Can you see me now?”

She nodded. “I can see that you’re here, but nothing more.”

“Would you like to wear your spectacles?”

She shook her head. “I’d prefer not to. They’re really heavy. Besides, won’t they be in the way?”

“A little, yes. But if you want them, I’ll get them for you.”

“There’s no need. Just as long as I can feel.” A crimson blush colored her cheeks.

He reached his hand forward and took one of her hands that was currently doing a terrible job of shielding her breasts from him and pulled it forward, pressing it to his chest. Her trembling fingers sank into his thick mat of chest hair. “Touch me,” he commanded gently. “Touch me anywhere you’d like.” She started to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. Holding her wrist, he moved her hand down from his muscled chest to his firm stomach then up to his shoulders.

Juliet’s other hand abandoned its post of partially covering her triangle of light brown, springy curls and came up to join its mate in the exploration of his chest. To gain better access, she rose up on her knees and moved closer to him, seeming to abandoning all of her inhibitions at the same time. He smiled. This was the bold woman he’d married, the one who knew no fear or restraint. Her fingers traced the grooves next to his clavicle, then fanned out and moved downward over the muscles in his chest. The touch of her fingers was like the points of ten branding sticks. He groaned. Her inquisitive fingers were driving him mad.

Her fingertips moved lower still, taking time to explore every dip and indention between his ribs and muscles. She reached his waistband, and a slight frown bent her lips before she removed her hands.